


What Happens in Asgard

by tisfan



Series: Tales from the Communal Kitchen (the ex-assassins files) [6]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Anal Sex, Asgards do not kid around, Dancing, Drinking, Drunk Sex, F/M, Food, Food Kink, Gender or Sex Swap, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Multi, Oral Sex, PIV Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Public Sex, Threesome, Vaginal Fingering, Voyeurism, Whiskey Dick, although Darcy might have, especially when it come to feasts, except nobody sexes him up, heimdall is made of sex, heimdall is sex on legs, too many elbows
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-10
Updated: 2017-02-17
Packaged: 2018-09-23 03:04:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9638219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tisfan/pseuds/tisfan
Summary: Clint is invited to Asgard to be Darcy's date for a Jol festival.This... looks good.





	1. Hide the Pain

**Author's Note:**

> To my smut adverse readers: the first chapter has no smut. But they talk about having sex. So, you know... really, if sex is not your thing, I'd just advise skipping this fic. Nothing important happens by way of plot for the Communal Kitchen EXCEPT that Darcy Lewis and Clint Barton go to Asgard. (This will come up as a joke several times, and then much later it becomes a plot point.) 
> 
> If you haven't read the last 2 chapters of Thou Shalt Adore, Darcy and Clint have a fuck-buddy relationship that starts as comfort for them both for the loss of Agent Coulson.

It was really hard to see anything else in the room when Lady Sif and the warrior Fandral were in the room. Especially when Thor wasn’t there to balance them out. They practically radiated light and power. 

Clint had gotten used to Thor.  The first time Clint had laid eyes on the blonde giant, Thor had been making a huge hole in SHIELD’s temporary headquarters, and pounding the snot out of some of Coulson’s best men. Stripped of his powers and merely mortal, Thor had been a double-handful of trouble, a bucketful of spirit and grit, and Clint had found himself admiring the hell out of the man. 

The next time he’d seen the Asgardian, they’d been up to their eyeballs in Chitauri and Clint was still shaking off the effects of being Loki’s toy. There wasn’t time to be all impressed with him. And since then, they’d lived in the same building, Clint had learned about Thor’s love for Poptarts and overly sugared coffee drinks. They were pals and Clint didn’t feel the need to hold Thor in any particular awe. 

Not so with Lady Sif, who was regal and proud and twitched at some primitive backbrain in Clint’s head, saying Kneel. How much of that was actually the warrior maiden or just remembering Loki and how easily… no, nope. Not thinking of that, no. And not kneeling. 

“Short-stack wants me to do what?” Seriously, what had Darcy gotten him into this time? 

Fandral had apparently appointed himself spokesman (spokesasgardian?) of the group. One of the Warriors Three, Clint knew from Thor’s stories, he bore a suspicious resemblance to Errol Flynn, a movie star that Clint had a bit of a crush on. Jovial, with brilliant amber eyes, Fandral was tall, taller than Steve, but not quite as massive; he was lean and smiled almost constantly. Gorgeous. There was something, Clint thought, about Asgardians that just… rocked it, as far as Midgardians were concerned. They were just super, super hot. 

“The Midgardian maiden,” Fandral said, and Clint had to clap a hand over his mouth, because Darcy was no maiden, “has been invited, in her role as cultural advisor for Midgard, to the Feast of Jol. ‘Tis late in the season of celebration, and much of the exuberance is subdued. Prince Thor was to have been her accompaniment; else her status as maiden would keep her from attending, as she has no father to do the honors.” 

Sif snorted, a particularly displeased sound. “Maidens are, among our folk, given little of the respect they are due. Even I must attend as Fandral’s consort.” She looked utterly disgusted. “‘Twill be a fair day when Prince Thor takes up his birthright and continues his support for my cause.” 

“Thor’s a smart man,” Clint said, eyeing the warrior maiden. She wasn’t someone he wanted to square off with, that was for damn sure. She was a good eight inches taller than Clint, with long, long legs and breasts like he wouldn’t believe. Pretty sure he couldn’t even get a hand all the way around them, and when she was looking at him like that, he was almost positive that she could read his mind and wasn’t exactly pleased at the direction of his thoughts so maybe he should shut that shit down right about now, right, brain, thanks. 

“Thus my brother, Heimdall, has sent us to fetch the warrior, Clinton Barton, to provide escort to the maiden Darcy Lewis to the feast of Jol,” Sif said, apparently prepared to repeat everything she’d already told him, word for word. Clint and Darcy’d had an on-again, off-again casual fling going since a year or so after the Chitauri invasion, and she wasn’t seeing anyone more serious at the moment, so Clint figured he made as much sense as anyone to provide her escort. 

“So, is this like a suit and tie dinner, or what?” Clint said, because he’d heard stories about Asgard’s feasts, and scary gods or no scary gods, he was going to _go_. Hot damn. After that mess on Christmas when Jones had gotten kidnapped, he deserved a vacation. 

“The Warriors Three will provide clothing suitable to your station,” Fandral said. His voice was more jovial than Thor’s, but only slightly less booming. 

“Well, then, yeah, happy to go,” Clint said.

 

* * *

 

Darcy had helped Clint wash his hair after he’d come back from helping Steve and Sam rescue Jessica and recover Thor’s cosmic tinkertoy doohickey; that time he’d been chilled to the bone -- the bad guys had been set up in an unheated warehouse to keep Jones from healing too quickly -- and half-covered in blood, and Darcy’s presence had been more comfort than anything else. 

This time, she was doing it dressed in the Asgardian version of a harem-girl costume, and Clint was stretched out in the biggest fucking sauna-tub he’d ever seen. This was definitely an improvement. 

“No, maiden doesn’t mean virgin,” she said as he sniggered about it. “It just means I’m an unmarried adult female. The Asgardians don’t get all hung up on sex, like we do.” 

“I’m not hung up on sex,” Clint said. 

“No, you’re not,” Darcy agreed. “It’s nice that way. But here, it’s kinda like dancing is at home. Casual, although still usually with someone you like. They’re not quite Greco/Roman, consent is important. But they have a ton of sex. I’ve only been to two functions, and they both ended with the sort of massive body-movin’ that would give a porno director a complex.” 

While Clint was trying to wrap his brain around that, Darcy added, “And don’t flirt with Heimdall. I’ll grant, the man is _made of sex_ , like oh, god, take me now made out of sex. But he will also look straight into your brain, see everything you’ve ever even thought about wanting to try out and then he will do it. All at the same time. It’s a little… exhausting.” 

Clint had about five seconds of his brain providing him with every bit of material in his spank bank and just the thought had him half-hard and completely terrified. He was so stunned by the idea that when Darcy pushed on his shoulders to rinse his hair out, he slid under the water and came up coughing because he’d forgotten to hold his breath. God. Damn. _Tempting_. But… maybe no. 

“Oh, and here,” Darcy said, handing him a glass. “Drink this.” 

“What is it?” Clint asked, slightly alarmed by the way she said _oh_. 

“Contraceptive,” Darcy said. She poured a second glass and drank it herself. 

“So I don’t knock up some Asgardian? Probably a smart idea.” 

She let him finish the drink before saying, “No, so they don’t knock _you_ up.” Which, thank god, because vaguely blueberry flavored contraceptive up the nose would have been a bad thing. 

“Do what?” 

“Seriously, they do not work at all like we work. Loki’s son, Sleipnir? Is an _eight-legged horse_. Loki turned himself into a female horse to save Thor’s life, and this other frost-giant-horse-kinda… Anyway, yeah, okay, so men can get pregnant here. Obviously Midgardian men aren’t built for it, biologically, but the healers couldn’t say for sure, so... better safe than sorry.” 

“Is it too late for me to go back to New York?” 

“It’ll be fun, Clint, I promise,” Darcy said.

 

* * *

 

The food at the feast was worth the price of admission. So long as Clint remembered not to ask what things were. He didn’t have any food allergies that he was aware of, so that was good, but discovering the sauce that topped some sort of fruit slices was made from the innards of a sort of insect that traveled “in the northern winds” kinda killed his appetite for it, despite the fact that Darcy moaned and stuffed more of it in her mouth. 

More for her. He wasn’t eating bug guts. 

And then he just didn’t ask; he ate, enjoyed it, and didn’t want to know, thank you very much. 

Jokes aside, nothing _actually_ tasted like chicken, either. There were bird-like creatures, roasted or baked, that came down the table, expertly carved, but Clint would have been hard-pressed to describe the flavor. There was a richness to it that put him in mind of butter and the very dark cuts of meat near the bottom of a turkey that had been over-basted. But that wasn’t quite right, either. 

The meal -- passed plates and bowls and trays and food and more food -- was served with a sour wine that Clint found undrinkable. Sif told a few stories about the greater grapes from which the wine was pressed, and the giants they’d slain trying to sneak into the vineyards, very heroic. Still, terrible wine. Boone’s farm was better. 

Their beer was, somehow, even worse. Bitter and thick enough to drip off a spoon like molasses. Clint grumbled and went back to drinking the juice, which tasted vaguely like the color red in a way he couldn’t express and actually quenched his thirst. Alcohol, he’d been promised, but thus far, he hadn’t been impressed. 

The final courses, cheeses and fruits (--not those apples, Midgardian--) and desserts went around. For a people that hadn’t yet discovered chocolate, the sweet course was pretty damn amazing, too. The sheer variety of cheeses would have made Tony weep. (Clint might have taken a bunch of pictures of the cheese with his camera phone to taunt Tony with later.) 

Finally, as the plates were cleared (and Hogun, Fandral and Volstagg stopped throwing food at each other, much to Sif’s disgust) Darcy started bouncing on her cushion with glee. “This,” she said in an undertone to Clint, “is the best part.” 

“What, Volstagg eats the table?” Clint wondered. The giant red-headed man -- his mass dwarfed even Thor’s, and might have approached the Hulk’s -- had eaten everything that wasn’t nailed down, and pried up a few things that were. Volstagg was the sort of man for whom the word _leftovers_ meant nothing. 

At the head of the main table, the servants started carrying in huge, curled horns. They were from some monstrous beast, the god among cows, perhaps, polished black and cream, decorated with heavy gold filigree and silver-buckled leather straps. The horn-bearers worked their way down the tables, offering the horn to each guest, holding and tipping it for those who acquiesced. The liquid was thick and golden, smelling richly of honey. 

“ _Mead_ ,” Darcy said. 

Odin stood; even from Clint and Darcy’s place near the foot of the long rows of tables, so far down into the nothingness that it was almost rude that Sif and the Warriors Three were sitting with them, Odin’s majesty was obvious in every move he made. There were very few people who honestly made Clint uncomfortable, but Odin was going to top the fucking list. 

He spoke a few words, praised the warriors and nobles who’d gathered that night. He mentioned his departed wife, slain in the Dark Elven attack, and how this particular batch of mead was the last that her hands had personally attended, and everyone should honor her name this night, as all nights. 

The Allfather wasn’t saying anything important; not like when he’d come to Midgard a few weeks back and demanded that the Avengers take responsibility for his fucking screwup and take steps to locate and return the tinkertoy, which had some fancy name Clint couldn’t be bothered to remember. That had been fucking terrifying; even Tony had been a little taken aback and Tony was so rarely rattled when put on the spot. After the fact, yeah, Tony sucked during the aftermath, but in the moment? In-the-spotlight, crisis-mode Tony was the fucking golden boy. But Odin’s warship and regal, righteous wrath had poked a hole in even Tony Stark’s confidence. 

This wasn’t that. This was just the sort of bland “good job, keep it up” speechifying that Clint had heard dozens of times over the years. But something about the _way_ Odin was speaking -- the rise and fall of his hands, the steady gaze from his single eye -- had Clint shivering with dread. Amongst the Asgardians there, Odin was the eldest, his hair and beard white, his face creased with wrinkles, but he moved without hesitation or any appearance of pain, a much younger man’s grace and movement. 

Little details. Clint focused. Odin was tall, taller even than his son, broad-chested. He wore armor with round plates of Asgardian gold, a metal even more rare and precious than their steel, the color dull but rich, banded onto black leather. His cloak was long, deep red, and fluttered in a non-existent breeze. He carried an enormous staff made of the same gold, and his eyepatch had been nailed to his skull, which in truth was pretty badass, but also kinda creepy. The rumor was that Odin had traded his eye for wisdom. Clint wondered how that was working out for him. 

Clint wondered what Freya looked like; she must have been beautiful, breathtaking, because Odin had nothing of Thor’s sheer, relentless masculine beauty. But he did have an eerie sort of grace, the way he gestured and turned, the-- 

Clint closed his eyes and that wasn’t enough. He turned away. 

_Loki_. 

Of course Odin moved like Loki; or rather, Loki moved like the Allfather. He’d studied at the man’s knee, learned everything, admired his father. Right up until he discovered that Odin wasn’t his father, that Loki wasn’t even an Asgardian, but the rejected son of Odin’s most dire enemy. It was all perfectly rational and logical and didn’t explain in the slightest why Clint wanted to vomit and then hide under the table. 

He’d never cared much that Thor was Loki’s brother, except in the way of being careful what he said about the man. Clint knew about brothers who sucked, brothers who betrayed, brothers who had tried to cut your fucking heart out and how goddamn much you loved them anyway, and how fucking much it hurt that they were dead and gone and you hated yourself for loving them. Clint knew that. 

But seeing Loki’s father, seeing the gestures and movements of the man who’d tortured him, who’d stolen his soul, who’d driven him to murder and madness... 

Clint was desperately glad, suddenly, that Odin considered Midgardians worthless. He’d been downright rude to Jane Foster the few times she’d visited, and Jane was a Nobel Prize winning scientist.  Odin wouldn’t even think to approach their table, to talk with them. Wouldn’t be worth the Allfather’s time. 

By the time the meadhorn made its way to the lower tables, Clint was desperate enough for a drink that he was beginning to reconsider his stance on the terrible beer. And the mead was _delicious_ , sweet and somehow both warm and cool. It ripped through the layers of his dismay with easy, purifying fire. Liquid sunshine, the mead trickled down his throat and settled in his belly, burning all his worries away. 

Darcy licked the last drops off her lower lip, then turned to Sif, who had spilled down her chin and was laughing and Darcy chased that liquid too, her pink tongue stroking up Sif’s throat. Clint swallowed hard, suddenly completely unconcerned by what Odin was doing.


	2. Commence Drinking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Asgardians do not fuck around when it comes to feasts; or drinking. But they DO fuck around...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's some dancing and drinking before things turn really smutty, (altho seriously, this is just porn without plot) but after the first line-break, it's pretty much sex from that point forward.

“Fuck Loki and his mind control,” Clint commented. For the first time in years, that didn’t hurt him at all. Loki’s invasion of his mind had been more traumatic to Clint than the actual alien invasion -- the whole purpose of humans was to make war, after all. War, he could understand. War was in his blood and his bow and his arm. Mind control, on the other hand, that was just some sick fucking shit there. But right now, warm and inebriated on Asgardian mead, Clint could not find it in himself to give a shit. “You could take over the planet with this stuff.” Clint waved a hand, his limbs not entirely under his control. 

Darcy glanced up at him from where she was drawing runes on Sif’s thigh. She kept dipping her fingertip in a sugared berry paste and then licking the blue-purple marks from Sif’s skin. It took her a while; the berries were sticky and sweet and the stain was pernicious, but Darcy was thorough. 

“Told you it was nice,” she said. Sif lounged back against a pile of cushions, her fingers carding through Darcy’s hair. She was carrying on an involved tactical discussion with Fandral, intermixed with godly kisses, and sometimes Sif would rock her hips up to bring her thigh closer to Darcy’s mouth, moaning softly. 

The mead was _nice_. For certain definitions of nice. Truthfully, nice was inadequate. For the first time -- maybe ever, Clint didn’t exactly have what one would call a relaxing, happy childhood -- he was _comfortable_. Nothing hurt; the aches in his knees, the pains in his fingers, the low-grade headache were all gone. He was just on the sweet side of sleepy, where dropping off would be easy and clean, but with no particular urge to sleep. 

Clint was _relaxed_. He actually summoned up thoughts that usually bothered him: Loki, Barney, the Swordsman… pfffffft. He couldn’t grasp the sharp edges; they were just things that had happened and weren’t happening now. 

Now was for sweet and sour, now was for the honey taste of mead on his tongue and the slick satin of Darcy’s kisses. Now was for the warmth of Fandral’s arms around his shoulders, for Sif’s bare foot which was sliding up his thigh. Now was for the lilting strains of Asgardian musicians and singers, the thrumming of drums that rumbled through the benches and directed the beating of his heart. 

Everything was lovely. Beautiful. The flicker of candlelight against the wrought gold of Fandral’s hair. The glitter of Darcy’s smile. The rising pink of Sif’s flush as Darcy moved that talented mouth of hers up the warrior maiden’s thigh. The colors were so rich and intense, Clint almost thought he could touch them, taste them, smell them. Red was warm and cider spice, the slick heat of a sun-warmed car seat, the drip of cherry juice and the sounds of cats purring. 

“I think I can taste my name,” Clint mentioned, just because it was a thing to say and he wasn’t quite sure what he was talking about. 

Fandral laughed, the golden sound musical in his ear. 

“I think the Midgardians are drunk, friend Sif,” Fandral said, then absently licked the side of Clint’s throat, pressing his tongue against the pulse point there. Clint stretched into the caress. The lust that hit him had no urgency, no immediate need to fill, but it was slow and molten and languid. 

“‘Tis not only the Midgardians,” Sif responded, slowly rolling her head back so she could look at her friend. “He’s such a pretty man, don’t you think? Look how he shivers in your arms.” 

“Oh, I am looking,” Fandral said. Clint couldn’t see it, but felt the sly smirk on Fandral’s lips in the way he formed the words. Smug bastard. 

Clint leaned back into the vee of Fandral’s thighs,wriggling as if to get comfortable -- well, more comfortable; he was already so relaxed and content it was a wonder his bones existed at all, he felt like a vaguely clint-flavored puddle of goo. The Asgardian erection against his back was… huge. 

Clint moaned, soft and eager, and Fandral gasped, hips jerking, rutting once against Clint’s back, getting that sweet friction. Fandral’s hands twined through Clint’s short hair, the rasp of fingernails against his scalp had him panting for breath. 

“Lookin’ ain’t all you’re doing,” Clint said, tipping his head back as Fandral’s teasing fingers moved down his jaw, then under his chin. It was all Clint could do to not purr like a kitten, and then he wondered why he was resisting. He hummed happily under Fandral’s touch, sighed into it. His hand rested on Fandral’s knee and he could feel the man’s powerful muscles shifting.

Darcy had finally made it all the way up the generous, pale expanse of Sif’s thigh and Clint shifted a little against Fandral’s legs, trying to get a better view of exactly what it was she was doing with her fingers under the gusset of Sif’s war-garb. The warrior maiden had spread her legs wantonly, her eyes closed, and gave a straight up moan that went straight to Clint’s belly and lodged there. 

“Come, young warrior,” Fandral said, standing and dragging Clint to his feet. “A lively tune plays, and I am of a mind to dance. Will you accompany me? ‘Tis a simple march and you are agile enough to learn it with alacrity.” 

“Is that Asgardian for ‘hey, handsome, wanna dance?’” 

Fandral pulled him into the center of the wall, weaving among those couples and triads still dancing, and not as euphemistically. Clint’s quick sniper’s eyes spotted a few of those who’d taken the dancing to its horizontal conclusion, but as Fandral pressed his long, lean body against Clint’s, the archer promptly forgot about them. Voyeurism had its place, but when Clint had an armful of warm and willing demigod, it took a backseat. 

Fandral led Clint through the steps, something rather like a combination waltz and two-step. Fandral’s body was close enough that the heat of him seeped through their clothing, that Clint could feel the flex of muscle as they stepped back and forward as one, could feel the beating of his heart, the flow of breath against Clint’s neck. 

Dancing was fucking, while standing up. 

Asgardian dancing was beyond fucking. It was slow and slick and languorous; it wasn’t a three-minute throwdown in the back seat of a car, it was a hedonistic weekend in the tropics with sun and sex and long, lazy mornings, learning each other’s bodies while naked and sweating. Clint was shaking like a leaf by the time the music ended. 

“Where’d they go?” Clint asked, staring down at the empty nest of pillows and blankets where he was quite certain he’d left a Darcy not ten minutes ago. 

“There are many bed chambers along the feasthall, for those who wish to indulge in the joys of the body,” Fandral said. “I know which of those beds that Sif prefers, if you would like to join them?” 

“Join, join, as in ‘hey, can I butt in on your sexy times?’ or join like in _join_ them?” Clint was aware that, had it been any of a number of regular evenings, he wouldn’t have interrupted. Even as loud as Tony and Bucky could be, or as ridiculously likely to be found fucking behind the goddamn sofa as Steve and Jessica, Clint didn’t like breaking up people’s ruts. (Though he would prefer to _not_ run into his teammates being all naked and happy in the public spaces. It gave him seriously awkward boners and then he’d catch himself rubbing one out to the image of Bucky and Tony in the goddamn stairwell, and then have to face them in the goddamn morning over breakfast. No. Nope. Nuh-uh, not fun. Except that it kinda was, which is what made it so goddamn awkward. If his teammates knew how much time Clint dedicated to daydreaming about each and every one of them...) 

Fandral gave Clint a wide, joyous, “come let us face danger together and have adventuresome  frolics” sort of smirk. “I do believe I know a place where we may freely observe them, and not interfere with their lovemaking,” he said. He tipped a quick wink in Clint’s direction and that went straight to Clint’s groin with liquid heat. 

“Oh, that…” Damn, that sounded _hot as hell_. 

Darcy wouldn’t mind; Clint knew that for sure, and Fandral often fought side by side with the Lady Sif. Fandral sounded as if that was a thing he’d done before, perhaps even often and surely, if Sif was going to object, she’d have broken Fandral’s nose for him in centuries past. Right? 

Fandral took Clint’s hand and let him through a maze of corridors and up a flight of stairs. Asgardian architecture was so weird; the stairs led out to an interior balcony, like an opera box that overlooked the damn bedroom. Who built like that? 

People who weren’t ashamed of their sexuality, people who appreciated the raw naked power of their comrades, who were open and honest and generous, who didn’t have several hundred years of puritanical repression drilled into their base culture. Those kind of people. 

Below them, Sif cried out, her voice riding the wave of ecstasy. There were soft, sheer curtains that divided the balcony from the room below, but they were nearly see-through, only barely preserving the illusion of privacy. Clint was drawn to those sounds, moth-like, and he touched the rail with one hand, looking down.

 

* * *

 

Of all the times for liquor to affect him; god -- and he meant that quite literally, because there was a nude god right there in the room, and two mostly naked women right down from him -- and while Clint was horny and he _wanted_ , his dick wasn’t speaking to him again. _Aw, penis… no._  

It was enough to make a man stop drinking entirely. 

“You know I’ll not harm you,” Fandral said, his eyes gleaming in the dim light. 

“Ain’t afraid of you,” Clint muttered, feeling his neck heat. Whiskey dick was probably not a problem that Asgardians had and Clint was mortified. “I jus’... it’s a problem I got, sometimes. Drink too much and there’s nothing that goes on down there. Like trying to stuff a marshmallow into a Coke bottle, it just don’t work.” Clint rolled over in the depths of the blankets, burying his head in the pillows with a frustrated groan. 

Fandral drew his fingertips down Clint’s bare spine, ending with a caress along Clint’s ass, which made him twitch and squirm. _Still nothing._  

“But,” Fandral said, laying next to him, glorious golden skin on full display, his muscles lean and long, perfect and beautiful. “This does not keep you from feeling desire?” 

“God, no,” Clint muttered. “Would rather it did, this is damn torture, wantin’ you and not being able to… it’s like, just rubbing it in.” 

Fandral rolled him over, gently. He tugged at the pillow lightly until Clint surrendered it and let the Asgardian look at him, and Fandral was looking at him without judgement, not disappointed, and not even in the sort of accepting, “what are you going to do” expression that Darcy had when she’d pleasured herself. It was kind and sweet and still full of desire. “Will you feel pleasure, do you imagine,” Fandral said, low and sweet in Clint’s ear, the shape of the words tickling along the shell of his ear, “if I touch and tease you, if I kiss and caress, even if your manhood does not respond? The mead will wear off in time, and in the meanwhile, I can stoke your fire higher, bring pleasure to us both. Would you wish to try this?” 

Clint stared. There’d been men before who, when faced with Clint’s lack of responsiveness, just fucked him. He’d told himself that he didn’t care, that it was only fair… but Fandral wasn’t talking about his own pleasure, he was talking about finding some together, and that might well have been the nicest thing anyone had ever done for Clint. 

“Hell, yes,” Clint said. He leaned into Fandral’s kiss, tasting the golden mead on his lips, the brush of his little Errol Flynn beard. Fandral bore him down into the blankets, smooth, hairless body pressing against Clint’s, fingers stroking him with gentle brushes. The kiss wasn’t an invasion, wasn’t rough or forceful, wasn’t any of those things Clint had learned to expect from kisses; instead, it was a sweet back and forth, a give and take, an exchange of breath, a bargain of pleasure. Fandral’s tongue was sweet and slick and moved along the inside of Clint’s mouth like a dancer, tasting and brushing and twisting, eager and yet infinitely patient, as if he had all night to dedicate to one single, perfect kiss. 

Fandral dipped his fingers into a bowl that lay near the bedside, then used them to draw cool lines down Clint’s chest. The Asgardian followed those shivery trails of moisture with his mouth and the combination of the two sensations, cool and hot, had Clint groaning in seconds, arching his back to let Fandral touch and taste. The stuff was slippery, smelled of honeysuckle, and painted soft glowing lines on his skin. 

“What is that?” Clint asked. 

“Freya’s nector,” Fandral said. “‘Tis the fluid of a certain flower that attracts pollen carriers. It has a certain arousing influences on many creatures. It has been enchanted to add to pleasure.” 

“How so?” The golden lights where Fandral’s fingers had been waned and waxed against his skin, pulsing with his heartbeat. 

“Watch me,” Fandral said, and followed one glowing line, licking and tasting. As the lights grew brighter, those places on Clint’s skin responded: the brighter the glow, the more pleasure he derived from Fandral’s touch. One particularly brilliant trace glittered just under Clint’s navel, a spot that had always made him weak with wanting, but that he rarely directed a lover to. Fandral honed in on that brightness, tongued it, and Clint about hit the ceiling, crying out. His eyes drifted shut, the dancing golden lines still sparkling behind his eyelids like he’d been staring at the sun. 

“That’s cheating,” Clint said, as soon as he could find enough of his scattered wits to say anything at all. 

“Is it?” Fandral asked, raising one blond eyebrow. He lowered his mouth to Clint’s belly again, licking and nibbling while Clint writhed under him, squirming and moaning, his arms going up to twine around Fandral’s neck. “You like it.” 

Clint half-rolled his eyes, noticing that the glittering liquid had formed a line on Fandral’s mouth like dayglow lipliner, and Clint couldn’t resist. He drew Fandral’s head down and licked that golden mark, flicking his tongue over it, a light, sweet cousin to a kiss and Fandral shivered under Clint’s touch, swallowed a moan. “Likin’ it’s not the point,” Clint managed. 

“Then what, pray tell me, is.” Fandral’s fingers trailed more of the nectar along Clint’s belly and it pooled into the v over his hip. “Do you not want me to?” Fandral was evil, just evil, letting his breath linger, kissing down Clint’s chest, avoiding all the golden droplets, headed right for that one, highlighted spot, but slow, achingly slow until Clint was all but shoving him down. Fandral laughed, the movement of his lips a torment against Clint’s skin. 

“You’re s’posed to figure it out on your own,” Clint said, gasping, and then he arched up, wanton and needy as Fandral scraped his beard along that sensitive skin, teasing and tickling. 

“Yes?” Fandral queried, polite interest in his tone. “Tell me, has that been particularly effective?” 

“You are a _smart-ass_ ,” Clint said, trying not to laugh and failing completely. “That’s like the Asgardian version of ‘how’s that workin’ out for ya’ or somethin’. Who knew? You’re a troll.” 

“Indeed, not,” Fandral said. “‘Tis an honest inquiry. If there is aught I may do that will improve my skills, or give you greater pleasure, I wish to know it.” 

“ _Troll_ ,” Clint said, decidedly, then shivered; skin rippling into gooseflesh. “You’re perfect and you fuckin’ know it.” 

A shy, pleased smile touched Fandral’s lips. He dipped his fingers again, traced up Clint’s thighs and brushed the pad of one finger over Clint’s hole. Clint moaned, loud, wanton, completely lost to sensation, drunk on it. Fandral teased, circling, pressing,stroking. “I am pleased that you think so,” he murmured, sliding against Clint’s body, licking along Clint’s neck as he shifted, pushing one finger into him slowly. The nectar served as lube, as well, slicker and smoother than any product Clint had ever known, and the tingle enhanced everything that he was feeling until he was pushing himself down on Fandral’s fingers, whimpering and begging and _needing_. 

By the time Fandral had Clint on his knees, head hanging limp between his arms, Clint was desperate. “Come on,” he begged and Fandral pushed into him, both easing and fanning the fires. Clint gritted his teeth, full and stretched and shaking.

From the gallery below them came the sounds of the women reaching bliss together, and Clint made an effort to raise his head and watch. They were, in a word, glorious.


	3. Always a Woman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Why sleeping in Loki's old room might not have been a good idea...

Clint would have been lying -- on a scale of Steve Rogers to Natasha Romanov, Clint was a liar somewhere around Nicky Fury levels -- if he tried to say that watching the women made him forget about what Fandral was doing to his body. He didn’t, couldn’t ignore it, but the motions of Fandral, stroking in and out, were matched neatly to the rhythm Sif had set to making Darcy a quivering, wrecked disaster.

Fandral, among his other talents, appeared to have bottomless (ha! pun!) endurance.

“Aren’t they lovely?” Fandral said, leaning over Clint’s back. “So pretty, so dexterous.”

“Yeah.” There weren’t words for what was happening to him, watching the women together. Sif raised her eyes, glanced at the balcony and smiled, slow and seductive. She knew they were being watched and revelled in it. She arched her back, her breasts proud and full, nipples hard in the cool air.

Darcy slid a hand down Sif’s body and between her legs, thumb moving with skill and precision over Sif’s clit, causing shivers of need to cascade down the warrior maid’s body.

Darcy shifted, dragging herself out from between Sif’s legs, knelt in front of the goddess, their mouths meeting, lips flexing against the other. Darcy stroked her hands down Sif’s arms, lightly brushing the sides of those full breasts. As she neared the rounded flare of Sif’s hips, she gave Clint a coy thumbs up and that was even more exciting, sending a bolt of pure heat into Clint’s groin; knowing they both knew they were being observed and actively getting off on it, displaying themselves in their perfect pleasure.

He couldn’t tell if Darcy was going the extra mile because she had an audience and because, in truth, she was pleasing three people at once, or if there was just something about Sif that had her on her best behavior.

Probably Sif, Clint decided, as Fandral added a little rolling motion to his hips that was constantly zinging through Clint’s body. He’d given up trying even the slightest bit to be quiet, he was moaning almost constantly, panting when his voice broke and cracked. Something about fucking a lesser god brought out the best in everyone, maybe.

Darcy bent over on her hands and knees and Sif arched backward, granting access. Clint hissed in wanting, as Darcy settled in, her tongue working over that tight bud. Clint couldn’t see, but he could imagine and that might have been even hotter. As it was, he was enraptured, barely breathing.

“There you are,” Fandral said, his hips still moving, slow and liquid fire against Clint’s thighs. Fandral reached around Clint’s hip, long fingers stroking Clint’s cock.

_Oh, god._

Either the mead’s hold on him had loosened, or, more likely, the combination of stimuli had pushed past it, overwhelmed Clint’s poor cock, because he was hard and getting harder. He groaned with relief and need, and oh, god.

“Please please please,” Clint babbled, dropping down to his elbows, changing the angle, and _holy shit_ , that was amazing, perfect. Fandral battered him down like he was breaching fortifications.

Clint shouted, joyous and loud, babbling filth and praise as he came. He fell even further forward, burying his face in pillows and blankets, gasping and groaning as Fandral wrung every possible bit of pleasure out of him.

Who knew how long Fandral had been working him, before Clint finally found his release? Not Clint, that was for sure, but if the sheer volume of jizz he deposited on the blankets was any indication, it had been _hours._ There was no fucking way Clint was going to be able to move tomorrow. He clenched, all the muscles in his thighs shivering as he came and came.

Fandral gave a gleeful shout behind him, the perky golden bastard. He sounded glorious and happy, but not the least bit winded. Could probably fuck his way through another half dozen Midgardians before collapsing in exhaustion. If Clint hadn’t felt so thoroughly fucked and sated, he might have hated Fandral just a bit in that moment.

As it was, he let Fandral roll him away from the wet spot (wet spot, hell, more like drenched expanse) and curled into Fandral’s arms for a cuddle.

Clint drifted on the ocean of hormones and bliss, not thinking of a thing.

* * *

At some point, Fandral nudged him, sleepy and sated. “The warriors will soon break their fast, my friend,” he said. “Take yourself off to the sleeping chambers and sleep off the last of it.”

Clint nodded, wrapped himself in a blanket and staggered down the hall. He wasn’t quite sure which room was supposed to be his -- his direction sense had gotten fucked right out of his head and he couldn’t quite bring himself to care. He fell into the nearest room that had an unoccupied bed and buried himself in thick emerald blankets. He pulled a smallish pillow under his head, mildly enraptured with the silken feel of material under his cheek.

He settled in. And slept.

* * *

Something was wrong.

Clint didn’t even have to open his eyes to know that.

 _Everything_ was wrong.

He was laying face down in a plush bed and nothing felt right. His chest hurt. His mouth felt… weird. His fucking cheekbones ached. His neck felt weird and too warm. His lips were swollen, pressing against his teeth. His pelvis hurt, and that was really only to be expected, but his thighs and hips felt… strange. Like he’d dislocated his hip, maybe, except without pain. (He had actually dislocated his hip once, and they’d given him painkillers for it; this was sort of like that, only… not.)

He scrubbed a hand over his face. His skin felt… remarkably soft. There was no scrape of callus from his fingers and his cheek was impossibly smooth, no beard stubble at all. He continued around the back of his neck and froze. His fingers encountered hair; lots of it. Way more hair than he ever wore; he hadn’t even gone through a phase in his teens and early twenties, like so many of his guy friends had. Long hair was a combat hazard, gave someone a painful grip on your head, and that was a thing Clint avoided like he owed it money.

Opening his eyes took longer than he’d expected; when he did finally get his eyes open. Everything seemed faintly blurry in a way it seldom was -- he brushed it off as what he hoped was a side effect of an epic hangover, even though he was lacking all the rest of the hangover symptoms. The colors in the room were… rich. Greener and more golden than he remembered. He looked at the pillow under his head and saw a dozen different shades, emerald and jade and forest all blended together in a soft swirl, subtle variations of color that he’d never noticed before.

He groaned and his voice sounded… different. Higher pitched and reedy, as if he’d spent the night with Fandral’s cock down his throat and come down with a bad cold at the same time.

Clint rubbed at his face again, trying to figure out why everything just seemed… off. If he could just put his finger on it --

His throat was perfectly smooth.

That never happened. Every time he shaved, Clint missed a spot right under his neck. Sometimes it was one side, sometimes the other. Occasionally right in the center. Never a big deal, rarely anything he felt the need to go over and fix. But there was always some. He pressed his fingers to his throat; his voice sounded weird but…

His throat felt more than smooth. It was like a marble column, soft and sleek and… he pressed right in the center. No adam’s apple. It wasn’t a thing he thought about; who thinks about what their throat feels like on a regular basis? But he knew what it did feel like and this... was not it.

What the actual fuck.

He found himself twisting his hair around his finger while he pondered the issue. He wound a tendril of brilliant emerald hair around his fingers -- long hair, down to his waist -- and when he tugged on it… yeah, that was decidedly _his_ hair, because the tug made pain zing through his scalp, hard enough to bring tears to his eyes. “Holy shit!”

He forgot the pain when he looked at the fingers the hair was tangled around. _His_ fingers were thick and callused and the joints were bent at strange angles from holding his bow. His fingernails were oversized, shiny and pale.

These… were not his hands.

These fingers were short but slender, the nails neatly round and extended past the end of his finger by at least two centimeters. The wrists were delicate, the back of the arms nearly hairless. He turned his hands over, and it was weird to watch these hands respond to the directions of his mind. The skin was pale, almost translucent, blue veins were barely visible under the skin, unlike his normal ropy veins and sculpted muscle.

Clint pushed aside the blanket, started to stand and then fell back onto the bed in shock.

Okay, okay, okay, breathe Clint, this is… this is… those are…

Holy fucking god damn bitch fucking shit.

He had boobs.

And not like little ones, either, not small, delicate breasts. No, he had huge fucking _tits_. Larger than those tiny hands.

What.

The.

 _Fuck_.

He stopped for a moment, panting for air, and then, yeah, he sort of had to, didn’t he? He reached between his legs.

Yep.

That was pussy.

For a long, long time he just sat there, fingers that weren’t his draped over a cunt that wasn’t his while he tried to decide if he was more horrified that his dick was fucking missing… or desperately turned on because he seemed to have inherited a pussy.

Ah…

Hmmmm.

Maybe.

Yeah, okay.

He lay back, leaving his hand where it was. He had a pretty good idea of what to do with one of these; he’d certainly played with enough of them in his time. (His? Was it hers, now? Did he have to change pronouns in his head? God, he hoped not, because he still… felt like _him_ , except in all the places that he felt nothing like himself at all.) This part was the little joy button, and he stroked his  finger over it, curious.

Oh. Oh. God. Oh. Ooooh.

Okay… so that worked. Yep.

Clint grinned, pressing and rubbing and…

That was weird.

No, no fair, that was _so not fair_. He stopped, panting. He could sort of feel the orgasm building, hot and liquid and a tension along his legs and back and prickles along his scalp, but the closer he got to it, the harder it was to keep moving his goddamn fingers, like every muscle in his body suddenly weighed eight hundred pounds. Everything stiffened up and the joints in his fingers locked and he just wanted to…

God damn. What the hell was this shit?

How did that even work?

He’d seen Darcy do it, it had to be _possible_. And, admittedly, he’d known some girls who’d taken so long to get off, his fingers and tongue had gotten tired, but he’d thought it was just that they weren’t that into him, or something. But…

“Hey, Clint,” Darcy stuck her head in the door, her arm hooked around the doorframe. “Are you-- Oh… oh my. Clint?”

It had not actually occurred to him to wonder what his face looked like. Clinton Francis Barton was on the good-looking side of average, but… probably, possibly, maybe not so pretty as a woman. And Darcy had recognized him. Sort of. So…

“Hey short-stack,” he said, weirded out again by how his voice sounded when he talked. “So, um… this is a thing that happened.”

Darcy licked her lips, her eyes flickering from his face, southward, and then jerked back up to his face, which was when he realized that his boobs were out. Heat prickled along his neck and cheeks (that was really weird, too, since Clint hardly ever blushed. He could count the number of times that he’d blushed in the last year on one hand -- and one of those barely even counted, because pretty much the whole goddamn team had turned some shade of pink when JARVIS decided to put on a porno in order to stop an Avengers free-for-all.) He snatched up the sheets and dragged them up to his chin, feeling awkward.

“Not like you haven’t seen me naked before,” he said sheepishly, “but…”

“Yeah,” Darcy said. “So, you’re a girl now?”

“Not intentionally,” Clint objected. “So, um… Do I look terrible, or what?”

Darcy laughed. “Not intentionally, my lily white ass. The first thing you ask me is if you’re _pretty_?”

Clint hung his head a little. “I was working my way up to asking you how the hell you jerk off as a woman, but I can go right for the big questions first, if you want.” He glared at her. “ _Falling over laughing_ is supposed to be an expression, you horrible woman, not something you’re supposed to do right in front of me.”

Darcy couldn’t stop. She was quite literally rolling around on the floor, clutching her stomach and howling with giggles. Her face was beet red and there were tears leaking out of the corners of her eyes and every time she started to get a hold of herself, she took one look at Clint’s face and started up again.

Finally -- finally -- she climbed to her feet, gasping and wheezing and still spouting off little bursts of giggles from time to time. “Oh, Clint…” Darcy climbed onto the bed with him. “You don’t look terrible at all. Pretty, actually.”

“Terribly pretty, or pretty terrible?” Clint asked.

“Stop being such a girl.”

“I _am_ a fucking girl right now, short-stack!”

“You don’t have to yell about it,” Darcy said. She traced one finger down Clint’s shoulder to the crease of his elbow and that made him shiver.

“How… how did you know it was me?”

Darcy tilted her head to smile up at him. Not very far up. Clint got the feeling he wasn’t terribly much taller than she was anymore. “You have pretty eyes,” she said. “They haven’t changed.”

“Oh.”

“So… now that you’re a fucking _girl_ , do you want to be a _fucking_ girl?”

“Duh.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On the matter of Clint’s pronouns: Despite sudden acquisition of a female-presenting body, Clint is not a woman, any more than a trans man is. Therefore, his pronouns remain masculine no matter what body he’s got. This is addressed briefly in the story, just after the transformation.
> 
> Also, we’re aware that having a two-sided magical pillow supports the faulty idea of the gender binary, but a pillow shaped like a 20-sided die just wouldn’t be comfortable to sleep on. It’s a PWP genderbending story that we wrote (well, tisfan wrote and 27dragons edited) because we wanted to have some fun and silly sexytimes; we weren’t wearing our SJW hats.


	4. The More the Merrier

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Darcy is very, very naughty... and Clint _loves_ it...

Darcy considered the problem for a few moments, then handed Clint a sheet. “Come on over to my room,” she said. “It’ll be easier to show you in front of a mirror.”

 _Oh, holy shit._ “Short-stack,” he said, his knees going all wobbly, “you can’t just _say_ something like that.”

“Whyever not?” Darcy said, her eyes bright with mischief. “It’s not like I’m _not_ going to spread your legs in front of a full length mirror and show you how to do yourself as a girl.”

“Jesus Christ, woman, are you _trying_ to kill me?”

“It’d be accidental manslaughter, at the very worst,” Darcy said. “What I am trying to do is show you how it works.” She tapped the side of Clint’s hair. “This… this is where orgasms start for women. Sometimes all the stimulation in the world won’t help unless your head’s in the game. I’m helping you get your head in the game.”

“If you want me to not walk directly into the wall, I need to get my head _out_ of the game,” Clint said, plaintive. “Just for a minute or so, m’kay?”

“Wimp,” Darcy said, smirking. She found a robe in the dresser, also green and gold and weirdly familiar, and slid it around Clint’s shoulders. “Well, this is nice, goes with your hair. Must be something in the room that did this to you. We’ll get Heimdall to sort you out, later. He’ll be able to figure it out, I bet.”

It was definitely one of the things Clint liked about Darcy; she had more chill than any of the Avengers. Anyone else would have been freaking out, rushing Clint to medical, consulting with Strange or Banner or anyone else they could think of. They absolutely would not -- and Clint choked, even considering it -- try to help Clint have an orgasm as the top priority. Which, in Clint’s mind, just meant Darcy had her head on straighter than anyone else.

Everything seemed bigger; Clint hadn’t been this short since he was fourteen, when he’d suddenly shot up eight inches in four months (he remembered the growing pains in his legs particularly vividly) and he and Barney had taken up shoplifting at department stores to keep him in pants and shoes. Clint looked down at his feet -- it took a while; the boobs kept getting in the way. God, his feet were _tiny_. How did women stand up? Jesus Christ and all the sinners.

Darcy kept a hold on his arm almost the entire time, which was good because his body was unbalanced. “Here, idiot,” she said. “Don’t walk with your legs all spread out like that. One foot in front of the other, literally. Like this.” And the way she walked, he’d never noticed it before, but she did, actually, swing each leg to the center of her stride, which did interesting things to the way her hips moved. He tried it, and… Okay, so _that’s_ how women swished. When he got home and back in his right body, he needed to have his fucking eyes checked, because how the shit had he never noticed that?

The huge room she ushered him into was draped with gold and scarlet wall hangings, which Tony would have loved. Putting Clint with his green and gold in there felt a little like Christmas, which was sort of what Jol was, kinda. Pre-Christian roots thereof, et cetera, et cetera. Darcy led him over to the bed. “Go on, hop up,” she said, patting the mattress.

From across the room, she dragged an enormous mirror, opulent and gold-framed and oval, the sinful sort of opulence that would put even Tony and his oversized gestures to shame. Well, this wasn’t to Tony’s tastes, anyway; Tony was the mostest modernest. Antiques did not interest him, and this piece was probably older than the Roman Empire. For a long moment, Clint couldn’t quite look in the mirror, too caught up in the artistry of it.

Or, you know, maybe he was just avoiding.

Finally, Clint looked dead straight at his reflection.

Okay, he understood now how Darcy had recognized him, because Clint recognized himself.

The hair was weird; long and wavy and green. (Why green? That was so not cool. Green was about as far from purple as you could get and still be in the same damn rainbow. He did not like green, not at all.) His face was more oval than normal, the cheekbones sharper, the nose more narrow, but he’d seen Nat do all those things with makeup and contouring, changing her own appearance with a few passes of a makeup brush. The mouth was the same, full lips, wide smile with one side of his mouth turned up. And the eyes were identical. He could see himself in that reflection.

Darcy was behind him on the bed; she tucked her chin onto his shoulder and kissed his cheek. “See? Pretty.” Her hands dropped down his chest -- that felt really, _really_ different as she traced his curves. Her fingers flicked over his nipples and holy _shit_ , that was sensitive. He arched against her fingers, the robe chafing delicately in a feedback loop of sensation. “Oh, you like that?” Darcy purred.

Clint didn’t even answer, he just whimpered as her hands continued teasing, stroking, squeezing. How the hell did women live with this? Every inch of his skin was tingling at the slightest brush of Darcy’s fingers. The softer the touch, the more he ached for it.

Darcy unknotted the belt at Clint’s waist and spread open the front of the robe, exposing Clint to the reflection. Clint couldn’t look away; his female body was slender, with heavy breasts and thick thighs that brushed together when he walked. Dimpled knees topped rounded calves and tiny little feet with delicate toes. Darcy slid the robe off his shoulders and kissed him, just behind his ear.

“Shhh,” she whispered to him, the fingers on one hand tracing a teasing line around one breast. “I’ve got you.”

By the time she drew her hand between his legs, Clint was writhing with wanting. His stomach felt liquid and hot; the sudden gush of liquid between his thighs was startling, accompanied by a deep-throated groan. Darcy spread his legs apart, her finger circling his thighs. He was so hot, sweat prickled under his hair, down the back of his neck, under his breasts. His cunt was burning, pulse throbbing deep inside. Darcy slid a finger inside, teasing. He could feel it, each twitch of her finger, against the outside, the salt of it stinging just a little, delicious friction. Once her fingers were wet with his juice, she pulled out, slid upward and he shrieked as she rubbed against that little node.

“Good god,” he gasped. She made tiny little circles around his clit (ha! Clint’s clit, that was funny! It was possible he was mildly hysterical.) and Clint couldn’t help but shiver and twitch. It was nearly impossible to stay still and he found himself touching every part of Darcy that he could reach, wanting, aching, needing her to keep doing whatever it was that she did.

“It’s really simple,” she said. “Little, tiny motions, that’s all you need. Well, what you really need is a good vibrator… but this’ll work. Look how hot you are, baby, I can feel how wet you are, yeah, that feels good, right? Just up and down, like this, how pretty you look. Look at yourself.”

It was the work of Sisyphus to open his eyes and watch what Darcy was doing, her hand working him, quick and graceful. His thighs and belly were splotchy, his neck was dark red, his lips were plush and swollen, he kept biting his lower lip, breath coming faster. “So hot,” he panted.

“Yeah, you are,” Darcy said. She blew cool air over the back of his neck, raising goose bumps all over his skin and it was so hard, suddenly, not to squeeze his thighs together as every muscle in his body went stiff and aching. “There you go, there you are, I got you, just let go, it’s okay, I’m here.”

It was _terrifying_ , like being thrown off a cliff. He couldn’t move; every muscle was concentrated on the trembling sensation in his thighs and ass and cunt. His toes curled, the muscles in his calves seized up, and he was shaking so hard he could barely breathe. Suddenly everything was on fire, he was so hot, burning, aching. One more slick motion of Darcy’s fingers and he cried out, his voice spiraling up; he crested some imaginary hill and tumbled down the side, everything convulsing at once, hard, and then a wave of cool, sweet pleasure washed over him, soaking him like rain, drowning him in luscious gratification.

“Holy shit.”

Darcy laughed, light and pleased. It took him a long moment to realize that she’d laid him back against the bed. He was so sated that every limb was as heavy as a rock. He wanted nothing more than to never, ever move again.

* * *

Clint fell asleep and woke up again, colder than he’d been when he went to sleep. Ug, no wonder when he slept with Darcy she was always kicking the blankets all over the place. Did women have no internal temperature regulation? “Okay,” Darcy said, “Should we go ask Heimdall if he can… do something about this?”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Clint rolled up onto his side; okay, that’s weird, the boobs were fucking heavy and awkward and when he rolled he smashed one nipple, which was Not Fun. He took a few seconds to rearrange himself so he wasn’t laying on his own boob.  “I just got this body, I want to take it for a damn test drive before I have to give it back to the dealership.”

“If you want more sex, you’re going to need to exert some effort,” Darcy said. “You get one freebie. Anything after that and you owe me one.”

“Happy to,” Clint said. “Now, go find our godly friends from yesterday. Fandral, especially. I want to feel what getting fucked is like.”

“God, Clint, you’re like a Catholic schoolgirl who just graduated,” Darcy complained.

“Don’t be a funsuck, short-stack.”

“I’ll have you know I am a very fun suck, Clint.”

“I knew that, actually,” Clint said, smirking. “How does that work, with girl bits?”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake, Clint, you know how that works, I know you do, because you have done it to me. If I had a strap-on with me, I could fuck you stupid and you know how _that_ works. None of this is actually new for you, despite the change in perspective.”

“Oh, come on, don’t tell me you wouldn’t want to test it out if you had a dick?”

“I have a dick; his name is Philip and he’s purple and vibrates, and when I’m feeling especially naughty, I attach Phillis on the other side.” She wove her fingers together and made a little wiggly two-way gesture with each of her middle fingers. Clint nearly doubled over at that thought. Oh, wow, his crazy sometimes fuckbuddy was sooo very much dirtier than he thought.

“Why don’t I get to find these things out at home?” Purple? She had a _purple_ strap-on? If Clint still had a dick, it would be really, really stiff at this point. As it was, that liquid heat squirmy feeling started up in his stomach again.

“Because whenever I travel with Thor, we end up getting a total scoop by airline security. It’d be fine, except Thor wants to know all about how it works. At top volume. In the middle of O’Hare. So I don’t bring them to New York anymore. Did that once, not happening again.”

“I will bribe Stark into sending an SI jet for you,” Clint swore. “Just bring it, next time.”

“You are such a nympho,” Darcy said, shoving at his shoulder, but she was grinning, too, so that was okay. And now Clint had something to look forward to, because wow, yeah.

“Seriously, if you’re not going to do me again,” Clint said, pressing his hand between his legs, because that was actually getting sort of uncomfortable, “then go find Fandral.”

“You don’t have to be bitchy, just ‘cause you’re a girl,” Darcy pointed out. But she was actually getting up off the enormous bed, so that had to be good, right?

Fandral was… bigger than Clint remembered. Of course he was, Barton, damnit, it was only logical. Clint was a good eight inches shorter than normal, so it stood to reason that Fandral, who already had a few inches on him, would tower over Clint. But he didn’t like it; it was… vaguely threatening. Reminding him, in weird ways, how vulnerable he was. Also it gave him a crick in his neck, to look so far up to have a conversation.

“Kjæreste,” Fandral greeted him. “I see you took a turn with Freya’s gift.”

“I did what?”

“‘Tis of little matter,” Fandral said, waving it off. “Simply sleep this night with the pillow reversed and you will be returned to your usual form. I believe I know where to find it.”

“So, no need to involve Heimdall at all,” Clint said. He wasn’t sure if he was disappointed or relieved at the idea.

“Not unless you wish it, fair friend,” Fandral said. He stroked a finger down Clint’s cheek, ending with a brush under the jaw and a soft kiss placed neatly against the corner of Clint’s mouth. A sweet gesture and one that would have made male Clint grin and tug him in for something a little rougher and a little harder and a lot more dirty. Female Clint found the whole thing unbearably exciting, however, and he was quivering by the time Fandral pulled back.

What the hell was it with this body that made it so damn sensitive?

“Told you he was pretty,” Darcy crowed. Clint barely spared her a side-eye; she was acting like she’d done this to him on purpose, just to give him over as a gift. Well, except that he was the one who’d asked for Fandral in the first place and what the hell, emotions? So weird, no wonder girls were so weird, how did they think of fifty things at once?

“Very lovely,” Fandral said. His eyes glowed in the candlelight, golden and raw, with a joyous hunger in them. “The Maiden Darcy said you _wanted_ me.”

Clint giggled. “That’s corny, darlin’,” he drawled. “Like, over the top cheese.”

Darcy leaned over and nipped at the shell of his ear, sending shivers down his spine. “Do you want me to stay?”

“I would welcome you with delight,” Fandral said, then bent his head to nuzzle at Clint’s ear from the other side and suddenly Clint was on fire with wanting. Holy shit, could he even handle this much? Didn’t matter, all he knew was that he totally wanted to try it; he was going to wring every bit of pleasure from the body he was currently in before they put him back.

Darcy pushed him back onto the bed, her nimble fingers going to the tie at his robe again and Fandral ran a curious tongue down the side of Clint’s neck.

The robe came off and Clint experienced a moment of furious embarrassment for being the only person undressed, though he wasn’t generally body-shy. His thighs pressed together hard and he squirmed. Fandral and Darcy slid, one to either side, and latched onto his breasts, licking and suckling, each rhythym and sensation individual and unique.

Clint arched up off the bed, back a perfect curve as bolts of heat rushed through him. Darcy’s hand traced patterns on his belly, while Fandral curled his fingers through Clint’s hair, tugging lightly until Clint had his head thrown back, hands clenching at the blankets.

Darcy’s fingers slid lower, teasing along the line of Clint’s hip, a ticklish, squirmy spot. “Like that, do you?” She and Fandral seemed to have some sort of weird sex-telepathy going on, because they moved together like some sort of synchronized sex-act. Darcy curled her leg around Clint’s right thigh, Fandral did the same thing on his left, and they spread him wide, exposed and pinned down.

“Just like this,” Darcy said, soft in his ear, and then both of them were teasing at his thighs and no matter how he tried to move or squirm, he couldn’t, could only take the pleasure and torment they were giving him. Darcy ran a soft finger along the crease of his thigh, cool and slow and evil, too slow to do anything more than stoke his fire, while Fandral lavished attention on his breasts, first one and then the other until Clint was moaning and shuddering.

“Come on, come on,” he pleaded, trying to raise his hips, to direct Darcy’s evil, tempting fingers.

“You’ll thank us for it later,” Darcy promised, still going slow, stroking, sliding, dipping her fingertips between his legs as he squirmed and cursed and begged. Fandral’s hand joined Darcy’s and they teased him into a frenzy, until he couldn’t decide if he was struggling to get closer or struggling to get away. He couldn’t see what they were doing down there anymore, except that he wanted it to never, ever stop, and if they didn’t knock it off really soon, he was literally going to die. Every nerve ending was lit like a firecracker, and when someone _finally_ touched his clit, Clint shouted with the force of his orgasm, knocking all the breath from his lungs.

When he came back to himself, he was shivering and drenched with sweat. “God,” he said. “That was… that was…”

“Uh-huh,” Darcy said. “I know, baby, I know.”

“Hey,” Clint said, nudging at her shoulder. “Lay back and spread ‘em. I need to do you. Need it. Want to taste you, want to…”

“Yes, you absolutely need to do that,” Darcy said. She stripped out of her clothes, discarding them carelessly. Clint was so absorbed watching Darcy get naked, positioning himself between her legs, that he’d almost forgotten that Fandral was watching them. When he remembered, suddenly everything seemed to be more, bigger, better than it was. Clint had never been precisely shy, but performing in front of an audience was something he’d done from the time he could hold a bow. It wasn’t exactly the same, but at the same time, it was precisely like it: making the audience gasp and cheer, fantasize and admire.

The taste of her was sharper, more bitter, than anything Clint remembered, and they’d just fucked a few days ago, so… maybe it was another female thing. His tongue was more sensitive, too, could detect each fold and dip. He was just starting to really get into it, listening to the way Darcy moaned and whimpered, feeling her thighs close over his head, her heels on his shoulders, when Fandral nudged Clint up onto his knees.

Clint didn’t stop what he was doing, and then he _couldn’t_ as Fandral stroked him, fingers along his ass and then dipping into his still oversensitive cunt. Clint echoed those strokes and nudges with his tongue, replicating the sensations to Darcy as he moved, twitched and squirmed.

“Ready, fair friend?” Fandral said, rubbing the head of his cock against Clint’s aching slit.

For just a moment there, Clint considered rolling his eyes, because seriously, dude? What the hell? How was he supposed to give consent _now_? He shifted his balance to get a hand up and gave Fandral a thumbs-up, which was probably dumb, since Fandral wasn’t much acquainted with Midgardian gestures.

“He says get on with it, already,” Darcy translated between gasps. Good girl. Clint rewarded her translation with more tongue and wet heat. He slid his hand up there, too, got three of those long, narrow fingers involved in the mix to drive Darcy to the point where she lost her ability to think coherently, much less relay his snark, but that was good, too.

Fandral pushed in, and holy shit, that _stung…_ He tore his mouth away from Darcy to yelp and he stretched out a bit, easing away from that penetrating weight, that… “Holy shit, I’m a virgin?” How was _that_ right?

“Well,” Fandral said, pausing half in, his cock twitching inside Clint’s pussy, huge and uncomfortable and _weird,_ “you _were_.” At least he had the decency to sound vaguely chagrined.

“Okay, okay,” Clint said, grimacing as he stretched and accommodated the violating thickness. At least his body was producing its own lubrication, although, honestly, it could have been a little easier, right?

Fandral kissed the middle of his spine. “Sorry, my darling,” he said, then worked a hand under Clint’s belly, finding that little twist of flesh, so sensitive, so… _oh, god._ And then Clint had no control over his own body. The muscles inside squeezed and clenched and pulled and drew Fandral deeper into him, and it still burned a little but less than anal, honestly, so that was fine.

Darcy whacked him in the head with her knee, reminding him that he had obligations of his own.

He gave her a quick grin and lowered his mouth again, finding her clit and tonguing it in time with Fandral’s strokes -- that wasn’t so much a conscious choice as a physical imperative; he couldn’t have moved out of time with that pulsing rhythm if he’d wanted to.   

Darcy arched underneath him, a surge of wetness in his mouth, and she was crying out, her hands tight in his hair, and whatever Fandral was doing back there with his hips and that little, corkscrew maneuver, maybe? Clint didn’t know, he couldn’t see and it didn’t matter anyway, because the slide was glorious and filled with delicious friction. Oh, yeah, oh, right like that, harder, harder, and he couldn’t say any of it, but it didn’t matter because Darcy’s shrieks were driving Fandral to greater efforts and--

Oh--

_Oh_

Like that right there.

Clint shivered and shuddered and took his mouth off Darcy so that he didn’t bite something he really shouldn’t, moaning against her thigh.

Fandral’s cock twitched and jumped and suddenly Clint was soaking wet. He could feel it, slick and hot and dripping down his thighs. Fandral made a soft, urgent sound that shot right into Clint’s belly and slowly melted there. Oh, god.

Clint let his legs spread further, dropping flat onto the bed, his face pillowed against Darcy’s thigh. Fandral pulled out and rolled over onto his back, sighing with satisfaction, and more wet dripped out of Clint’s body, and okay, that was a little unpleasant, especially how fast it cooled.

Darcy laughed at the face Clint made, petted his hair. “Good enough for you, Hawkeye?”

“Give me a damn blanket and two hours of sleep, and we can talk about going again.”

  
“Insatiable beast,” Darcy said. She helped Fandral spread a blanket over them and drew Clint up to rest in the center, with Fandral on one side and Darcy on the other. “Sleep now, dear. I’ve got you.”


	5. The Mother of All Hangovers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Clint is very hungover, Darcy is still drunk, and what happens in Asgard stays in Asgard...

Heimdall had been bad enough when Clint was a man; all masculine beauty and Asgardian levels of sexy, which only barely intersected the human scale up at the top end. But he’d also been down at the far end of tables, closest to Odin, and Clint hadn’t wanted to get any closer to that august person. So they hadn’t yet officially met.

From Clint’s new feminine perspective, Heimdall was a natural disaster. A volcano erupting and stars falling from the sky and water spouts crashing in from the ocean. He was sex on legs and it was all Clint could do not to fall over onto his back and pray for -- well, yeah, his mind presented a very vivid picture.

Heimdall was made of sex, and Clint was currently made for it. So, there was that.

“Quite a collection of pretty little Midgardians you have here, Fandral,” Heimdall rumbled. His golden hawk’s eyes swept over Clint and Darcy as if he were picturing the women, one on either side of his hips, licking up his cock and meeting at the head to kiss and twist around each other --

Heimdall directed his fierce stare at Clint and then the side of his mouth twitched up in a slight smile, wicked and hot and brutal and Clint almost doubled over from the force of his wanting.

“Stop thinking, idiot,” Darcy hissed at him.

“Not something I’m used to hearing,” Clint managed to snark back. But she had derailed him, which let Clint stand there for a few minutes without ripping his (or Heimdall’s) clothing off. How the hell did Jane manage to be here without getting into trouble with her godly boyfriend?

“Because she loves,” Heimdall said, answering the question that Clint hadn’t given voice to. “This… compulsion that Midgardians feel in our presence, the extension of our charisma, it has a limited duration in the face of true conviction. As Loki wished to make them kneel, a man with determination can resist.”

Gee, thanks…

Heimdall shook his head. “The staff was naught of this realm; that had nothing to do with Loki’s intrinsic power, and was, instead, the Tesseract, a power greater than even our greatest sorcerers could match. Badly misused, and not even half of the Tesseract’s full potential; Loki’s use of it was… above him. It is a puzzle that occupies me, still.”

Clint shuddered and held up a hand as if to ward it off.

“Worry not, little one,” Heimdall said. “‘Tis only theorycrafting now, and not a concern for the realms.”

“We wish to return yon Midgardian to his born-form,” Fandral said. “He spent the even’ past in Loki’s chambers, and woke to this change. ‘Tis near time for he and the Maiden Darcy to return. We thought to consult with you before tempting the fates again; Asgardian magic twines oddly, from time to time, upon Midgardian limbs.”

“Loki?” Clint stared. What the fucking fuck. “Loki did this to me?”

“Freya’s gift did this to you,” Heimdall corrected, “but the item is contained within Loki’s former bedchambers, left preserved as they were, by order of Odin, to commemorate the loss of his son.”

“Not all that Thor’s brother did was beyond the pale,” Fandral said. “For many centuries, he was our companion and Thor’s favored friend. Many japes and adventures were made all the more heroic because of his company. ‘Twas only later, when his heritage was discovered in such a distressing manner, that he let slip his hold on sanity.”

“Some of us have rough childhoods without becoming psycho,” Darcy muttered.

Clint didn’t have much room to stand and judge; he hadn’t made the decision to be a villain, but he’d allowed himself to be led without considering it much. Ex-assassin’s club, we’ve got jackets.

Heimdall glanced at Clint again, eyes serious. “I see you gaining compassion, young Midgardian. Again and again, your people impress me. They are closer to glory than many know. Thor has seen the potential in you. I add my voice to the chorus of your praise.”

Heimdall raised a hand over Clint’s head, measuring him, and Clint felt small compared to the Asgardian, this god in man’s shape, who watched over the realms with calm grace.

“I see no reason that the usual reversing of the gift should not be employed,” Heimdall said. “Though as a Midgardian, I advise a few days’ rest before the attempt is made. Too much of such power may have unexpected effects on an unaccustomed body.”

“But we gotta get home,” Clint said. “What sort of effects are we talking about, here?”

“Nothing too dire,” Heimdall said. “The gift is meant to be shared freely, with no dark intent. Should aught occur, it will fade, in time, much as the effects of overmuch drinking. ‘Tis a mere caution I offer, and not stern warning of danger.”

“Think I’ll chance a bit of a hangover,” Clint said. “Wanna get home. I worry about those assholes back at the Tower if I ain’t there to look after ‘em.”

“As you desire, little friend,” Heimdall said, and then speared Clint with another look, promising everything else that Clint desired.

* * *

Clint woke up feeling like he’d been trampled by a herd of wooly mammoths.

He ran a tongue over his teeth, trying to ignore just how completely foul his mouth tasted. Like a hundred voodoo chickens had died in there after laying rotten eggs. He could, actually, have gotten quite poetical about the depths of his despair over the taste of his teeth. Must be something in the Asgardian air.

Clint made a heroic effort (seriously, fighting Doombots wasn’t this difficult) and got his arm up to scrub at his face. It was second herculean task to open his eyes.

At least his hands looked like his goddamn hands again. Not that he hadn’t enjoyed being a girl, but it wasn’t something he wanted for himself full time.

He ran his hand through his hair: short and spiky again, just like it was supposed to be.

Clint ached. _Everything_ hurt. His fucking eyelashes hurt. His toenails hurt. His ass hurt -- only to be expected, really -- and his dick hurt (unfair, but he’d taken it as a given) and his whole fucking pelvis hurt, including an area in his lower gut that he wasn’t sure he actually owned anymore.

The backs of his thighs were sore, even worse than the time Nat had convinced him to do the squat challenge on steroids and they’d done weights at the same time, and she was walking around in fucking high heels the next day while Clint could barely get out of bed. His arms weren’t much better. Hell, even his goddamn lips felt like they were bruised. What the hell had he done to his jaw?

He stopped categorizing his various aches and pains because he really needed to throw up; he rolled out of bed onto the floor and bolted for the bathroom. Asgardians didn’t have what Clint considered modern plumbing, but the chamberpot bullshit was at least self-cleaning. He vomited into it for what seemed like fifty years and it all vanished.

He lay on the floor and groaned, the golden tiles cool and comforting under his cheek. No breasts, yay. He could lay flat and not feel like he was suffocating.

Coffee. He needed coffee. Along with chocolate and ice cream, coffee was not a thing that Asgardians had. There was no Asgardian equivalent of either chocolate or coffee beans, apparently, and their methods of preserving food didn’t require cold, so no one had ever invented ice cream. It spoke, as far as Clint was concerned, to the superiority of Midgardin culture. What kind of advanced society didn’t have caffeine? According to Thor, they didn’t have any sort of stimulant substitute. Once Thor had been shown what he was missing, he’d become as fond of coffee as Clint and Tony (and other right-thinking individuals across the galaxy).

So there would be no coffee or any other caffeine until he got home.

Home.

That sounded nice. He’d have a few cups of coffee and then fall face-first in his own bed.

Yep, that was a good plan. Slowly, with great care, he dragged himself to his feet. Shuffled over to the golden ewer. Poured. Washed his hands in the matching golden basin. Splashed water on his face. Looked in the mirror.

Screamed.

* * *

“No, it’s okay, Clint,” Darcy said, patting his hand as they walked over the rainbow bridge toward Heimdall and home. “It’ll fade in a few days. Think of it as a drunk tattoo, only with less permanence.”

Clint glared at her. “You’re fucking kidding me. My hair is still green. _Green_. How is that right? Or fair? It could’ve at least gone purple. I am never going to hear the goddamn end of this. Nat’s going to be bringing it up at parties for decades.”

Darcy shrugged her shoulders. “Well, we can’t wait here for it to wear off. There’s a limit to Asgardian hospitality, and I don’t really want to run up against what happens when it runs out. The King allowed the invitation because Thor is insistent, but Thor’s not here right now. Now that Jul is over, we really have to go. We could ask Heimdall to drop us off somewhere else, if you want. Get a room for a few days, or something.”

Clint ran one hand through his hair, making the green mess stand up even straighter. “No,” he said, finally. “I’m a goddamn Avenger, and I’m gonna go do my job.”

“We could shave your head,” Darcy suggested.

“No, are you… no. Let’s just go home and pretend everything is normal. If I pretend really, really hard, maybe no one will notice.”

***

So, of course the thing that Darcy didn’t tell him was that the Bifrost was going to amp his hangover all the way to eleven.

The rainbow bridge dropped them off on the top of Avenger’s Tower with a god-awful whump as every molecule in his body turned inside out, upside down, and promptly vomited. Which was, sadly enough, what Clint did as soon as he hit the ground. He dropped to his knees in the ornamental gravel that Tony had coated the roof with (now adorned with the sizzling Asgardian runes that the Bifrost left everywhere.) and heaved his guts up.

“Oh, god,” Darcy said, similarly engaged in an amatuer apendectomy, “someone just shoot me now.”

So of course the first person Clint saw when he was able to get his stomach under control and think about getting to his feet was Bucky, who had come up onto the roof to smoke.

“Man, I was gonna say you two missed all the fun.” Bucky said, nose wrinkling up at the smell, “but it looks like you had some fun of your own, no doubt. Need anything?”

“Two pots of coffee,” Clint said, dragging himself to his feet, and then giving Darcy a hand, “and a bacon sandwich, and for you to just… stop talking so loud. Stop breathing. Stop having a heartbeat. All of it. S’way too loud.”

“Right,” Bucky drawled. He pulled out his phone. “Yeah, Steve, get up here, I need some help with the walking dead. M’on the roof.”

“Shuuuuuut up,” Darcy moaned. “Quiet. Quiet is a thing, I promise.”  


“Yeah, yeah,” Bucky said. He eyed them both for a minute, then scooped Darcy up in a neat princess carry. “Let’s get you two cleaned up first, I don’t want you in my kitchen smellin’ like a week’s worth of hangovers.”

Steve came out of the elevator at a brisk jog, then stuttered to a stop when he saw Clint. “Are, um… you aware that your hair is _green_?”

Clint flicked Steve the bird. “Can you hear that, or do I need to turn it up a bit?”

“What do you need?”

“Let’s take ‘em down to the gym showers and get ‘em hosed off,” Bucky suggested. “JARVIS, can you get Jessica to meet us there? I don’t think Darcy wants me to give her a shower.”

Steve had managed to get an arm under Clint and was holding him up entirely under his own power, because Clint wasn’t helping. Every bone in Clint’s body felt like it had been broken and then turned into jello. Not a pleasant feeling _at all._

“Oh, no, Buckybear,” Darcy said, grinning up at him, “you’re adorable, and I totally wouldn’t mind, but _Tony_ might.”

Bucky snorted. “What, Clint wouldn’t mind if I was making time with you?”

“She’s not mine,” Clint protested. “Darcy’s her own. I don’t got no objections to anything she wants to do. Whatever makes her happy.”

“Yeah,” Darcy said, “Clint doesn’t mind sharing.”

Steve flushed, hot and red, the back of his neck painfully bright. “There really is a thing as too much sharing, Miss Lewis.”

“Aw, how cute,” Darcy said. Was she still _drunk_ , rather than hung over? Somehow that didn’t seem fair. “I can still embarrass him. I thought after I’d seen him in his boxer-briefs that he was done with all that. Because, my lad, you have a seriously fine ass. I would just love to take on that backside. Don’t you think, Clint? Doesn’t Steve have a great ass?”

“Short-stack…” Clint groaned.

“Really. On a scale of Sam to Heimdall, I think Steve’s somewhere between Thor and Tony. Because, really, Tony’s butt… so cute. Just perfectly round and--”

“I am _carrying_ you,” Bucky pointed out, “so you might want to wax just a little less poetic about my man’s butt. Maybe?”

“I just had --”

“Darcy,” Clint said, mustering every bit of Phil Coulson’s spirit that he could resurrect in that moment, “please stop talking right now. Everything that happened in the last few days stays in Asgard, all right? Consider it a top secret mission, okay?”

Darcy squirmed around in Bucky’s grasp a little and stared over his shoulder at Clint. “Seriously?”

“I am very, very serious,” Clint said. “I don’t ever, ever want to talk about it with these two. Or anyone else who wasn’t there.”

Darcy considered that for a moment, then nodded. “Okay. What happens in Asgard stays in Asgard. I can deal with that.”

“I feel like we’re being cheated here, Steve,” Bucky said. “Don’t you feel cheated out of a good story?”

“Honestly, Buck,” Steve said, “no. I really, really think I can live without that story.”

“No fun,” Bucky said. “It’s not like Clint wasn’t digging around in your sex life when you started dicking Jess.”

“Bucky!”

“God, for people who get it on so often and so damn _loudly_ , you’re still a stick in the mud, Stevie,” Bucky said. The elevator opened on the gym floor and Bucky handed Darcy off to Jessica’s tender care.

“Wow,” Jessica said, “that’s a terrible color on you, Clint. Did you do that on purpose?”

“Shuddup, Jones,” Clint managed. “Don’t want to talk about it.”

“Apparently,” Steve said, “what happens in Asgard stays in Asgard.”

Jessica shrugged. “Okay,” she said, leading Darcy off to the girl’s side.

“Remember, Lewis,” Clint said, watching her, “not a word.”

“I hear you,” Darcy said, shuddering. “I hear you. Be quiet now.”

“I,” Clint said to Steve, “have the mother of all hangovers.”

“I noticed,” Steve said. “Let’s get you cleaned up, shall we, Hawkeye?”

Clint nodded. “Man with a plan. I like that.”

**Author's Note:**

> The apples that Clint is admonished NOT to eat are the ones that give the Aesir their immortality. This is from Norse myth and as far as I know, never mentioned in the Marvel universe, so it's just a throw-away...


End file.
